I continued staring at her, letting my hand drop as I regarded this woman, the meaning of her words, and the lack of emotion with which she said them.
The words themselves weren’t unusual. I’d heard those words before—or something like them—from many, many women. Usually whispered in my ear while they pawed me in my car, or in a hidden corner of the community center on jam session night, or behind this very building.
But I’d never heard them like this, with the same passion one might use to suggest I try using fabric softener.
Shelly Sullivan dropped her gaze to the bar top.
“You’re joking,” I said and thought at the same time.
She shook her head.
I flinched because she wasn’t joking.
“You’re serious.” The words came out strangled.
Color stained her cheeks. Her eyes were averted but sober, and her generous lips were pressed into a determined line. “Yes.”
An involuntary sound escaped me as I gave the woman a once-over, again saying and thinking at the same time, “You're crazy.”
I winced as soon as the words were out. Immediately, I regretted them, wished them back, and cursed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to say it, because—clearly—she’d suffered at some point in her life.
She also flinched—just a little—like I'd poked a wound that still smarted.
It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but before I could she said, “Yes. That’s also true. But I'm taking medications, I think I'm less crazy now than before.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. She had me turned inside out and upside down, uncertain what to do or think or say.
Spinning the coaster on the bar top, she filled the silence. “My therapist suggested that I should ask you out. But what I really want is to have sex with you. So, that’s what I am asking for. But I’m not against dating.”
“Therapist?” I asked dumbly, trying to keep up. “You’re in therapy?”
The muscle at her jaw jumped and she nodded.
Glancing around the bar, half wondering if this was an elaborate prank, I searched my head for the right response to her request.
Uh, yeah.
Yes.
Hell. Yes.
How about right now?
Wait a minute . . . wrong head.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled. I exhaled. I opened my eyes and they caught on Duane across the room, and his often-repeated words floated through my mind, What would Darrell Winston do? Do the opposite.
And also, Cletus.
“I . . .” I started, my stomach dropping, eyes lingering on my brother for a moment longer, then moving to the woman in front of me. I didn’t prepare myself—I hadn’t been thinking—so her gaze hit me square in the chest. Two beats of my heart later, I finished my sentence. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, for us to . . . seeing as how I’m technically your boss.” And my brother Cletus thinks you two are suited.
Shelly was nodding before I’d finished my sentence, reaching into her back pocket and withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill.
“That makes sense.” She placed the bill on the bar. She turned. She left.
I stared at the spot she’d just vacated for less than a second, and then my feet were moving. I set my beer on the bar. I followed her through the crowd and out the door. She had long legs, and she was power-walking, so I had to jog to catch up. By the time I did, she was standing next to her brown 1971 Buick GSX and was fumbling with her keys.
“Wait a minute. Wait.” Unthinkingly, I caught her arm, sliding my hand down the length of it until she was facing me and I had her fingers wrapped in mine.
She shivered and lowered her gaze, but she didn’t move otherwise.
“Shelly.”
“Yes?”
For some reason, I was out of breath. “Are you . . .”
She gave me her eyes. “Yes?” The question was a whisper and it sounded hopeful.
Dammit.
Releasing her hand, I took a step back. “Are you working Monday?”
She stared at me. She nodded. I nodded too.
Then Shelly unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.
11
“He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.”
― Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight
* * *
*Beau*
I’ve always considered myself an honorable man. That said, my dreams weren’t always honorable. And I was definitely okay with that.
Take Saturday night, for instance. I’d lain in bed, Shelly and her request on my mind, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said yes. Almost immediately, I pushed the delectable flashes of possibility away. No good could come of lusting after a woman so entirely out of my reach. Not only did Cletus have intentions for her, but she was in therapy. On medications.
The last thing Shelly needed was to star in her coworker’s sexy fantasies.
So of course, my dreams took up the cause.
We were at the shop and it was daytime. She was being mouthy with me about something. My dreams were peculiar in that people spoke, but it was usually an impression of the words rather than specifics.
We argued. She followed me upstairs. We argued some more. I was changing, she was changing. She took off her clothes . . .
And then suddenly it was weeks ago, when she’d walked in on me at my locker. Except I was still angry about the argument. But she wasn’t angry, because we hadn’t been arguing.
She whipped off her dress like she’d done on that day. This time, I didn’t look away. I advanced—still furious—and backed her against the wall. She looked up at me, surprised but not afraid.
I pulled roughly on her braid, her mouth opened, and I kissed her. She was soft and hot. More importantly, she kissed me back. She moaned, or I did, as I slid down the straps of her bra, bending to take her breast in my mouth. Her hand was in my boxers. She circled me with her fingers, stroked. I was so hard, so damn hard.
But I wasn’t angry. I was frustrated. I wanted. And the wanting was frustration incarnate. The upstairs office wouldn’t do, not for what I wanted. So the scenery changed.
We were in a room I’d never seen, with a large leather sofa. Shelly was still in her lace underwear, standing in front of me. I wanted her to take off her bra. She did. I wanted her to sit on my lap, facing outward, straddling my legs. She did.
I put my hands on her, filling one palm with the weight of her perfect breast, rolling and tugging her nipple, then sliding the fingers of my other hand into the front of her panties. She arched, giving me a glimpse of her tits over her shoulder, rubbing her ass against my dick. I bit her neck, her back.
Pressing her forward until she was on her hands and knees on the carpet, I knelt behind her, cupping her backside.
But that wasn’t right.
She said my name, it sounded like a question.